


it takes a village

by motheyes



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Fundy-centric, Gen, Minecraft, fundy's character arc is just so neat, hehe boom, i love one (1) little arson fox, same universe as apotheosis, the epic highs and lows of minecraft politics, yet another character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27125215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motheyes/pseuds/motheyes
Summary: Fundy was born with L'Manburg, grew and matured by its side, and he is there to see its death.(previously part of my apotheosis verse)
Relationships: entirely platonic xoxo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 97





	it takes a village

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: if this fic crosses any boundaries, it's getting taken down. this is about the fictional minecraft politicians, not about the streamers. please don't confuse the two.
> 
> second disclaimer: dialogue and stuff is not exact. if something is different from how it happened in stream, that is on purpose & i am aware.
> 
> with those out of the way, i hope you enjoy! 
> 
> thank you to my friends for betaing. love you guys.
> 
> EDITED 11/20/21: i'm removing this from the apotheosis series! i don't wanna take it down, in case anyone still wants to read it, but i'm going to be reworking it massively. the apotheosis verse is my first major writing project, and so my writing is improving in real time with each new fic update, and this doesn't hold up anymore.

The first thing Fundy remembers is this:

He’s playing with a flint and steel that he’s found on the kitchen table, clanging the two parts together and giggling at the noise, trying to make a spark like he’s seen other people do so many times.

“Woah, woah, hey buddy,” a voice says, and suddenly, his dad is prying the flint and steel out of his hands. Fundy reaches for it, but it’s put on a shelf far out of his reach, and he starts to cry.

“Give it back,” he mumbles through his tears, still reaching up towards the shelf.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay.” His dad crouches down to his level, scooping him off the ground. A thumb wipes the tears off Fundy’s fuzzy cheek.

“Only four, and you’re already going for my weapons,” Dad says, and baby Fundy can hear the smile in his voice. “My little champion.”

Years later, and Fundy stands atop the old, beaten-up van that makes up the heart of his country. His snout is long and angular, now, his teeth and claws sharp enough to cut. He wears a uniform of pink and white and pastel blue, the brim of his cap shielding his eyes from the dying August sun.

He is the picture of a perfect soldier.

“My little champion,” Wilbur coos, rubbing his palm over Fundy’s cheek. His hand lingers for just a moment, before he pulls away to start to rally the people together for one last effort in battle.

Fundy looks up at the sky, an embarrassed flush hidden under his orange and white fur, fists and teeth clenched. He can hear Tommy giggling in the background. And, when it comes time to fight, when Fundy reaches for a crossbow, Wilbur holds him back and tells him to manage supplies.

L’Manburg is born with an explosion, both figurative and literal, and all the while Fundy can do nothing but sit on the sidelines.

Wilbur praises his men for their courageousness, after the peace treaty has been signed. Fundy’s cheering, though it’s just as loud as everyone else’s, is poisoned with the whispers that are beginning in the back of his mind.

The peace after the war is good. It’s better than anything Fundy’s ever had, actually. He was born into war and fire, just as his nation was; though he always feels like there was more he could have done for L’Manburg, he finds that voluntary peace and quiet can be nice. He bakes with Niki, and he builds a base, and he tends to his sheep.

Of course, though, all this changes a few months later.

Fundy is one of the first to hear of the election. The news comes to him through faint whispers that have been passed from Quackity to George to Karl to Eret to Fundy, and all he can see is an opportunity to make his mark at last.

From the moment he first hears of it, Fundy only ever has one person in mind to be his vice president. Niki’s the perfect running mate. She’s kind and compassionate but not in the way Wilbur is, and she and Fundy have been on the same wavelength since the moment they both chose pastel blue uniforms.

They talk in her kitchen, the smell of chocolate chip cookies filling the air and drifting out the open seaside windows, and Niki firmly shakes Fundy’s paw with her flour-coated hand.

And so, COCONUT2020 comes to be.

Fundy announces their candidacy directly to Wilbur. It doesn’t go well.

“Do you not believe I want the same thing as you?” Wilbur asks, his eyes flicking between Fundy’s, searching for something that he’s not going to find. Fundy looks away.

“It’s nothing personal, Dad.”

What he doesn’t say is, Why should I trust you with a country when you can’t trust me with my own self?

He lets it go, though. Instead, he focuses on his presidential campaign. Bribery with sugar has never gone wrong.

The weeks fly by in quick flashes of debates and campaigning and baking.

When Schlatt decides to run, truthfully, Fundy doesn’t know what to think.

Niki assures him that Schlatt could never win, not this late in the game, but Fundy hears a slight chord of doubt in her voice. He feels the same chord in his own head. Schlatt’s confidence, his willingness to throw Wilbur to the side just like that, digs a pit in his stomach.

The morning of the election results is probably the tensest morning in Fundy’s life. Everything - the months spent building L’Manburg, the war, Fundy’s entire life - it’s all led to this moment.

Fundy doesn’t miss the tension in Wilbur’s shoulders. He doesn’t miss the stress in his voice as he announces the start of the election results. And, when COCONUT2020 take their place on stage, Fundy doesn’t miss the tired-yet-frantic stare Wilbur gives him.

COCONUT2020 gets last place. Fundy’s disappointed, but he supposes that’s fair. He and Niki high five and cheer sarcastically as they get sent back to the audience.

POG2020, though? POG2020 losing was never supposed to be in the cards. And as much as Fundy has his problems with Wilbur, Schlatt is an entirely unknown beast.

Quackity cheers and laughs as Wilbur reveals that the coalition government won by one percent.

Schlatt is deadly quiet as he ascends to the microphone. The tension is so thick that it could be cut with a knife. As he chuckles and smirks and declares himself the emperor, it condenses into a panicked frenzy.

Fundy’s always been good at thinking fast. And so, when Schlatt yells, “Get them out of here!” he immediately knows what he has to do.

He’s the first one on Tommy and Wilbur’s tails.

They’re off just as fast as he is, running towards L’Manburg, of all directions. They round the corner of the great blackstone walls, and, just seconds later, Fundy is right there with them. Only, somehow, they’ve disappeared; the entrance to L’Manburg is completely empty, as far as the eye can see.

“They’re not here! They must have escaped!” he yells to the rest of the search party as he turns back.

He lets the crunching footsteps behind him go unnoticed.

Niki stares at him as he returns. He meets her gaze, trying his best to impress how he feels upon her.

She turns away in disgust. Fundy can’t blame her, especially not knowing what he’s about to do.

“Tear down these walls,” Schlatt says, and Fundy obeys.

Niki’s stare bores into his back as he starts quietly dismantling the wall.  _ I’m sorry, _ he thinks, and he prays that it reaches someone.

It’s by the northwest corner of L’Manburg’s walls that Fundy finds Eret. They’re not chipping away at it like everyone else; instead, they stand in front of that small section of wall like a silent protector.

“C’mon, man, join in the festivities!” Fundy exclaims when he sees them. He’s met with silence. “What, are you not excited to tear down these oppressive walls?”

Eret’s face twists into a frown. “This isn’t right.”

Fundy sighs and thinks, remembers everything he knows about Eret. He looks side to side, making sure that nobody is nearby who could possibly hear him. And then, after a long moment, he leans in to whisper in Eret’s ear.

“Up with the revolution,” he says, so quietly he can barely hear it himself. “I am not on Schlatt’s side. Don’t get caught.”

Eret breathes in sharply as Fundy steps away. They nod, and with a flick of their ridiculous king’s cape, they’re gone.

Fundy knows a lot of things about Eret; they’re a traitor, a scoundrel, L’Manburg’s number one enemy. But, underneath that all, he’s seen the way they used to ruffle Tubbo’s hair, the way the glow behind their sunglasses dims when they sit on their cold and lonely throne. And it seems that, this time, Fundy’s trust has not been misplaced.

He sets to work, pulling bricks out of the wall one by one, slowly doing his part to chip them down until they’re not even waist height anymore.

His hand clenches around his trusty old flint and steel. 

Fundy has loved L’Manburg from the moment that it was nothing but a dream in Wilbur’s head. He would do anything for this nation, anything to preserve what it once was and what it should have always been. He was never going to follow Schlatt’s lead, not quietly.

Maybe Wilbur and Tommy would do things differently. Maybe they’d insist on preserving the flag, the greatest symbol of their nation, at all costs.

Make no mistake, though; Fundy is not doing this for his father.

The flag burns behind him.

Fundy doesn’t look back, not as sparks fall down around him, not as he hears Niki’s distant wails of rage and anguish, not as the flagpole crashes to the ground, its ashes mixing with the dirt.

L’Manburg was christened in fire. It can take a little more.

“Woah,” Schlatt says appreciatively, when he sees Fundy’s ashstreaked fur. “I was gonna build up to that. Nice initiative.”

“Of course, President Schlatt,” Fundy responds. “Anything for your rule.”

L’Manburg feels wrong, without its walls, without its flag. Fundy doesn’t quite realize this until he’s on his way home, until he turns around at the top of the giant staircase in the Prime Path, and sees nothing but flat land.

Half of L’Manburg is gone, and the other half is aflame.

Fundy has his work cut out for him.

The next morning sees him atop a new flagpole, studiously building a new flag block by block.

“Fundy, please, stop this,” Niki begs from below, shouting to be heard. “Did COCONUT mean nothing to you?”

Fundy forces himself to ignore her. Her words hurt; of course they do. He never really did stop caring, after all. But he has an act to maintain, and so he instead pours himself wholeheartedly into his new flag’s design - one yellow X over three stripes of purple and red and white.

He keeps building, and Niki keeps shouting.

Fundy places his final block just as Schlatt strolls out of the new construction sites for office buildings. Immediately, Niki goes quiet, and Fundy climbs down from the top of the flagpole, fanning his hot face with the brim of his cap.

“Sir,” he says to Schlatt, bowing deeply. “Good morning.”

“Woah, there,” Schlatt laughs. “Love the enthusiasm, gotta say. And this flag… well, it’s perfect.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Schlatt extends a hooved hand. Fundy stares at it cautiously.

“Now, I don’t usually do this so early on, but I’m thinking of offering you a promotion,” Schlatt says, and Fundy’s ears perk up.

“Fundy, you can’t,” Niki butts in. Fundy rolls his eyes.

“With all due respect, Niki,” he spits back, “I’m going to need you to be quiet.”

He knows she means well. He knows that she just doesn’t want him to bow to Schlatt’s dictatorship. Something about her words, though, they remind him of Wilbur in all the wrong ways.

So, Fundy takes Schlatt’s hand, and he does his best to ignore Niki’s wounded gasp.

Now, Fundy isn’t an idiot. He notices how he and Tubbo are two of the members of the cabinet; he knows Schlatt’s just using him because he’s Wilbur’s son. He understands that Schlatt doesn’t really care about his skill, just about how easy it is to leverage Fundy against Wilbur and anyone else still loyal to the old L’Manburg.

None of that matters, though. Fundy plays the part of the loyal soldier well, and as long as he gets to be useful, he doesn’t care.

When Niki burns the new flag, he just quietly rebuilds it again. Maybe it won’t fly in the wind anymore. Maybe it’s rigid and strict and imposing more than anything else, now. But one thing is certain; it’s guaranteed to be indestructible.

Maybe Schlatt is infinitely worse than Wilbur could be, or maybe L’Manburg has just traded one dictator for another. Either way, Fundy is finally allowed to run free.

This country’s name becomes Manburg on his lips, but in his journal and in his heart, it will always be L’Manburg. Fundy will go to the ends of the earth before anyone, Schlatt or Quackity or Wilbur, can take that from him.

He plays his role during the day, building and yessir-ing. At night, though, as the flickering torchlight starts to die, he takes painstakingly detailed accounts of everything he knows about Schlatt’s plans.

Granted, those plans aren’t much, at least as far as Fundy knows. There’s always the chance that the festival in Schlatt’s name is hiding something bigger, though.

Fundy’s put on decoration duty, because of course he is. He’s important enough to do Schlatt’s busywork but not important enough to organize anything important.

Tubbo’s also on decoration duty, which means Fundy has to be more deliberately obtuse than usual. If he turns a blind eye every time he catches a glimpse of long pink hair hiding in a tree, if he turns a deaf ear every time he hears a loud, cackling laugh, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

It doesn’t escape his notice that he never once sees even a trace of his father, though.

Finally, the sun rises on the morning of the festival, lighting up the weeks of work put into the grounds, and honestly? Despite the fact that it was made for a tyrannical dictator? Fundy is damn proud of his decorations.

The stage has been transformed entirely from the simple cobblestone platform it once was. Now, a roof made of blackstone bricks shields an identical throne from the elements. Four ram’s horns, made of bone white quartz, spiral out from either side of the throne. The entire scene is backlit with the glowing of a hundred magma blocks. The whole thing towers over the rest of the brightly colored festival grounds, dark and tall and imposing.

It’s there where Schlatt sits to officially open the festival. He finishes speaking, and the previously silent and orderly crowd explodes into noise and celebration.

Fundy takes stock of everyone there from the sidelines, watching them cycle through activity after activity. There’s Quackity, flanking Schlatt’s side, Tubbo filling George’s complimentary spot. There’s Technoblade, absolutely destroying people in hand-to-hand combat - and isn’t that interesting to see, a member of the resistance openly enjoying himself in enemy lands.

There’s two things that Fundy does his best to ignore - an empty stall where a bakery’s goods should be sold and an empty chair where a monarch should sit.

He thinks he sees a flash of red and white at the top of Eret’s old brick and obsidian tower, once or twice, but it’s always gone quick enough to be dismissed as his imagination.

Before long, it’s time for Tubbo’s speech.

The crowd gathers back around the stage again. Tubbo stands tall and proud, confidently parroting all of Schlatt’s propaganda. Fundy tunes him out almost immediately.

That lack of paying attention is how he notices it, actually.

There’s a faint noise coming from somewhere nearby, so quiet that Fundy doubts a human could be able to hear it. He frowns, and his ears angle forward as he stares at the ground, trying to figure out where it’s coming from.

“I’d like to thank everyone for coming to this wonderful event,” Tubbo says, a smile wide on his face. Fundy thinks the noise he’s hearing sounds almost like hissing.

That’s when the world explodes.

Fundy’s flung halfway across the festival grounds, his back hitting the side of one of the shop stalls before he can even process what’s happening. His paws scrabble against the ground as he frantically tries to regain his bearings, his head spinning and his ribs aching. He shakes his head, trying to clear his vision, and when he looks up again, his heart stops.

There’s nothing left of the stage but a crater. Flames lick at the rest of the festival grounds, eating up the bright decorations, melting the ice-skating rink.

Fundy desperately holds his sleeve over his mouth, trying not to breathe in the oppressive, stifling air. It’s hard to see anything; all the fire and ash has choked out the sky, staining it dark grey. He scrambles to his feet, one arm bracing him up on what’s left of the wooden shop stall.

Everything else is worse, somehow. The dark, obsidian flag is visible through the smoke, its magma block patterns still shining bright. That’s all that’s left, though. Even from here, Fundy can see that the Camarvan is gone entirely. Even from here, he can hear the squealing of the trees burning and their crashing as they fall.

Nobody else is in sight.

Fundy is alone in this hell.

Each step is a trial, but inch by hard-fought inch, he slowly struggles his way out of L’Manburg, past scattered debris and upturned earth. His hind paw trods over what’s left of the tilled soil as he scrambles up the hill, his claws leaving marks in the askew fenceposts.

He catches himself against a spruce tree and doubles over, hacking and panting as he tries to clear his lungs. The hand that’s not wrapped around the tree trunk falls to his knee, and Fundy realizes that his suit is burnt and torn, his fur charred in places.

The only sound other than his frantic breathing is the crackling of the flames and some kind of horrifying, ear-aching grinding.

He turns around just in time to see the tall flag crash down into the fire below. It doesn’t burn - Fundy had made sure of that when he built it - but it crashes and breaks and scatters across the burnt, ravaged land.

Fundy stares down over the smoke and ash, over the torn-up ground that’s horribly familiar, over his fallen flag and walls and nation. The overhead sun shines a bright, bloody red through the smoke as it reaches its zenith in the sky.

There’s a lone figure standing among the fire, tall and dressed in black.

Fundy looks at his father, and he whispers, “What the fuck have you done.”

**Author's Note:**

> whoo whee.
> 
> this au has quickly spiraled out of my control. it's already the biggest thing i've ever worked on and there will be more of it yet to come. hopefully, i can get out of the canon stuff and into the fallout of the explosion stuff soon. i have Plans.
> 
> if you're reading this, thank you and i love you. please consider kudosing or commenting! they mean a lot to me :)<3


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